


Greg can't sleep and knives are sharp.

by Willamina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-12
Updated: 2012-03-12
Packaged: 2017-11-01 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/361221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willamina/pseuds/Willamina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg's brain is awful to him, just awful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greg can't sleep and knives are sharp.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own Sherlock. Because reasons.

I suppose it officially became an issue when I nearly cut my tongue out with the Global G-2. _For the second time in as many minutes._  
  
The first time, I could blame the close call on a failed taste test and a bit too much Alsace. The second time, I put the fucking thing down and made my way straight to bed. Just fridged the orange slice bars and dropped the knife straight into the scraps bowl.   
  
\---  
  
Greg huffed. Sleep was not forthcoming. But sure, anyone will tell you staring at the ceiling is never conducive of a good nights rest. Especially not when the epiphany to shame all others had just exploded into conscious thought. _Still though!_ He couldn’t help grimacing in annoyance.  
  
So Greg rubbed at his eyes. He palmed at his sore right arm. He curled his toes in his plaid socks. It was no use. _Fine! Have at it. Let’s just put it out there._  
  
His body instantly relaxed and Greg hummed in delight. The weight of his thoughts having obviously been a hindrance. A second later he froze.  
  
 _Well shite. Joy is ever short lived isn’t it?_ In his moment of disgruntled acquiescence Lestrade discerned two things: One, his brain and cock were holding a not-so-silent match. Two, Greg was in no way to be termed complaisant when it came to his body’s histrionics. Even when mentally waiving away refusal to enter emotions into the equation. Honestly, Greg may not be a genius but he knows when intervention isn’t called for. _I’m not responsible for the thoughts circulating about. Not even a bit._ Greg shrugged minutely, accepting his mental disclaimer.   
  
He went back to staring at the ceiling.   
  
_I’m too bloody old for one thing._  
 _I don’t even know the bloke._  
 _I’ve yet to hold an actual, legitimate conversation with him,_ his brain supplied.   
  
_“I see my brother’s experiments have struck yet again, Inspector._ _You can pick your suit jacket up at Mayfair. Please, no argument. Tabs are always opened at that particular cleaners,”_ is conversation plenty, his cock argued.   
  
Greg continued staring at the ceiling.   
  
He squinted, as if the answer to his dilemma lay somewhere in the water stained plaster, now if he could just see it. Then again, having thought about it- sure he could warm up to the idea of lusting after the man. Greg’s eyes widened in brief surprise. After years without so much as a feigned interest from his cock. Libido, you finicky sod. _Lusting after someone. Lusting after a Holmes. Lusting after-_  
  
A nod of assent stopped his treacherous brain. He rolled to his side. Greg fell asleep atop his quilted bed spread moments later, a palm under his head, his thighs sandwiching a pillow.


End file.
